And then she stormed out in a dramatic manner that implied we had left a dark stain on her youthful psyche.

The truth is, this is just the kind of unfortunate thing that happens when you have been married as long as I have. One moment you are a young newlywed who ensures the bathroom door is locked to prevent your spouse from seeing you perform vital bodily functions, whereas the next moment you are a wizened creature approaching the love of your life, clutching tiny scissors, and asking: "Sweetheart, would you mind trimming my toenails?"

I would perform this objectionable task myself, but, tragically, I have reached a point in life where, from a sheer physical fitness perspective, it is all but impossible for me to touch my own toes, let alone wield a sharp instrument without severing an innocent digit.

The first time I asked my wife for help in this area of personal hygiene, she looked at me the way she looks at the dogs when they have an accident on the living room carpet, then muttered something along the lines of: "You sicken me!"

Now, I have many wonderful qualities as a husband, but attractive feet are not one of them. I possess what my wife calls "Hobbit feet," meaning they are overly large, hairy and capped by toenails that, if left to grow, become as long and sharp as an American bald eagle's talons.

Fortunately for me, my wife eventually changed her tune. This happened because I am one of those sleepers who flip-flops in bed all night long and, on occasion, lashes out with his feet as if kicking an imaginary soccer ball.

"Aaaaaargh!" is what my wife shrieked one night when one of my jagged nails connected with her unprotected ankle under the covers.

So now, every few months, we will park ourselves on the couch in the den and my wife, trying not to inhale, will give me the world's fastest pedicure.

My fragile daughter is slowly returning to normal, but the other night I gave her a taste of her own medicine when I strolled into the den unannounced and saw something that sickened me.

There they were, my daughter and her boyfriend, cuddling on the couch, watching an old episode of Jersey Shore.

"Dear God, no one needs to see something like that!" I grunted in fatherly disgust as I seized the remote control and switched to the Golf Channel.

You can comment on most stories on winnipegfreepress.com. You can also agree or disagree with other comments.
All you need to do is be a Winnipeg Free Press print or e-edition subscriber to join the conversation and give your feedback.

You can comment on most stories on winnipegfreepress.com. You can also agree or disagree with other comments.
All you need to do is be a Winnipeg Free Press print or e-edition subscriber to join the conversation and give your feedback.